


I'd Be Under the Sea but You Hold Me Above

by Write_as_Rain



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: ...and Ellipses, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blatant Overuse of Italics, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Peter Being a Creep About Martin, Captivity, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, I know mermay is mostly for art but I do what I want, Jon still kinda has Archivist powers, Jon's asexuality isn't a plot point or anything he's just ace like me and I'm All About that, Lonely!Martin, M/M, Martin and Jon save each other, Mer!Jon, Merfolk AU, Mostly Fluff, Only a Little Bit of Angst Honestly, Rescue, near-drowning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24460921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_as_Rain/pseuds/Write_as_Rain
Summary: As a fisherman working under Captain Lukas, Martin has learned to keep his head down and fade into the mist. He does his work, walks further down the path Peter has laid before him, and if members of the crew occasionally disappear, Martin has learned not to ask about them. Has learned to stop caring at all.At least until the crew pull up something strange and wonderful and impossible, tangled in one of the fishing nets. Something that Peter means ill.No, Martin doesn't... care. But maybe he can save it. Maybe they can save each other.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 112
Kudos: 641





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this was just supposed to be a oneshot for mermay, but it turned out a few… thousand… words longer than I anticipated. I still wanted to get it posted before May was over, so now it’s multiple chapters! The rest of it is largely written, just needs some editing, and it should be posted within the next week or two.
> 
> This is so self-indulgent, my dudes. SO self-indulgent. But I’ve always wanted to write a Merfolk AU and now I have! Also, ‘sup, this is the first fanfic I’ve written in two decades, let’s see how it goes.
> 
> Of course, if there’s something you think needs to be tagged, please let me know!
> 
> Title from “Gay Pirates” by Cosmo Jarvis.

“Hold it, _hold it!”_

“Grab that, watch it, it’s slipping!”

“Wait a bit, let it tire itself out…”

“Gods… just _look_ at it.”

All the shouting died down just as Martin emerged onto the _Tundra’s_ deck. His initial spike of panic and confusion—something must really be wrong, this was the loudest sound there’d been in _weeks_ —softened into curiosity when he saw his crewmates gathered around something on the deck.

Martin couldn’t see through the crowd, but what looked to be the entire crew was huddled around the whatever-it-was, giving it a wide berth. Something thumped heavily on the deck, and the assembled crew flinched back with a hiss. Martin let himself fade a bit and drifted his way though, peering over the heads of those closest to the center, until he laid eyes on what they were all staring at in mute reverence.

A quiet voice dared to rise from the back of the crowd. “Someone should go get the Captain.”

_

A few minutes later saw the deck nearly deserted once more. Captain Lukas squatted before a tangled clump of fishing net, staring intently at the thing trapped inside it. The creature stared intently back. Its thin chest heaved, its limbs straining. The lurid orange nylon wrapped tight, stark against deep greenish-blue skin. Martin stood a few paces back, quietly watching.

After a moment, as though they’d concluded a voiceless conversation, Peter stood, nodded sharply to himself, and turned to Martin. Something very near a scowl twisted his normally-jovial face, and Martin idly wondered why, before he saw. Really properly _saw_ Peter, for the first time since Martin had been aboard. For a second, it was as if the freezing fog Peter wore like a cloak was ripped away, and he seemed more present, more solidly _there_ than Martin had ever seen him.

Then Peter wreathed himself in loneliness again, flickered like a film reel, and the sense of his presence retreated to that muted barely-there ache in the back of Martin’s mind. As usual. But fear settled cold in Martin’s gut as Peter’s eyes glittered with a look that never boded well for anyone around him: Unconstrained glee.

“Put it in the hold, Martin. Look after it until we get back to England. Make sure it isn’t hurt—and that it doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“Yes, Captain,” Martin said, glancing back at the creature. If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn it had an expression like hatred on its face as it continued to watch Peter. “That’s… that’s a siren, right?”

Peter’s smile confirmed it.

“But… isn’t it _really_ dangerous to have aboard? For us, I mean.”

“Oh, aboard a normal ship, certainly. But on mine? It couldn’t tempt anyone if it tried. And I don’t doubt it will try.” Peter took a few steps closer and leaned in. Numbing cold like frostbite hit Martin’s face, ever at odds with Peter’s warm tone. “But if you’ve been doing what you should, that won’t be a problem… will it, Martin?”

Martin stared into Peter’s ice-gray eyes, and let the fog quiet his fear. “No. ’Course not.”

Peter’s face split in a grin. He clapped Martin on the back with a hand so cold Martin could feel it even through his jumper. “Good.”

Martin allowed himself to shiver once Peter was safely back in the wheelhouse. The man radiated the bloody cold like a furnace did heat. With his cheerfulness, it was easy to forget, sometimes, just how dangerous he really was.

A couple of crewmates remained on deck, staring listlessly out into the open ocean. Martin had to physically shove at them to get their attention and ask for their help. He didn’t know their names. He didn’t even bother trying to learn them anymore. People came and went so often on this ship, it was much easier _not_ knowing. With Martin’s direction, they seized the nylon net and dragged the siren to the hold.

Martin followed. The creature left a dark trail of water smeared across the deck. Below, the deckhands tossed the entangled siren into a corner and cleaned junk off a clear plastic tank Martin had never known the use for. They took turns hauling seawater to fill it, then heaved the creature up and dumped it, net and all, into the tank. Then, without a word or a glance at each other or Martin, they left.

“W-wait, you’re not just gonna _leave_ it like that?” Martin yelled after them, but either they didn’t hear him, or didn’t care. On the _Tundra_ , more likely the former, but it didn’t matter. Martin sighed. Like so many things nowadays, Martin thought, it just wasn’t worth the effort.

Martin made it exactly one step towards the door before his atrophied conscience gathered itself enough to stop him. He heard the siren thrashing, water lapping almost sadly at the walls of the tank. Martin gritted his teeth and swore at himself for his weakness.

After a moment’s deliberation, he shut and latched the bulkhead. If something were to happen, at least it would only happen to him.

Martin wasn’t an idiot; he knew what this was. Peter was well aware of Martin’s persistent inclination towards _caring_. This was just another test, see if he could follow Peter’s orders without losing himself. See if he could care _for_ something without caring _about_ it.

Well, fine. He was up to that challenge. Not like he had anything more to lose, anyway.

Martin pressed his back against the bulkhead and studied the creature in the tank. It had sunk to the bottom and was coiled up in one corner, powerful tail flexing and straining against the orange net. The water grew choppy from its thrashing. Beneath floating tendrils of thick hair, so black it looked almost green, its eyes glowed a toxic, bioluminescent green, focused on its bonds.

Martin took a slow and cautious step in its direction. The creature went still immediately, spotlight attention focusing on Martin in a way he wasn’t used to anymore. It hit him like a blow to the solar plexus, left him winded, feeling laid bare and exposed.

_Seen._

He forced himself to breathe and took another step, and another. The siren remained still but for the flutter and twitch of its fins and the scan of its eyes, trained directly on Martin.

The tank was fairly shallow, stood on the floor and only coming up to Martin’s ribs, three-quarters full of water and creature. He stopped right at the edge, looking down at the thing, where the ripples distorted the glow of its vision.

Martin fought with himself, trying to convince himself that the emotion he felt was fearful respect for something wild and dangerous, not exhilaration from the first living creature to properly _look_ at him for ages.

 _Getting high off_ eye contact _now, are you?_ he chided himself in a voice that sounded awfully like his mother’s. _God, you’re pathetic. Come on, you should be better than that._

Martin swallowed and broke eye contact with it. He was pretty sure sirens didn’t work that way, but it was still probably not a great idea to end up staring deeply into its eyes.

Not that Martin knew _anything_ about sirens, only a few garbage “true sighting” articles online and from fairy tales he’d read as a kid, and this creature—wild and ancient and powerful and with a gaze that felt like being peeled—had nothing in common with the gaudy mermaids in storybook illustrations.

_Ok, great. You’ve reached the tank. Now what?_

Martin pulled a multitool slowly from his pocket, flipping open the wire cutters. As he expected, the siren shoved itself further into the corner, its lips rolling back in a snarl, revealing a cluster of horrifying needle teeth like an anglerfish. Martin raised his hands placatingly.

“Alright, alright! Yeah, I figured as much. Look, it’s for the ropes, see?” With the tool, he gestured across his own chest, snipping them in the air. “I promise, it won’t hurt. _I’m_ not gonna hurt you. This is to cut you loose so you can… I dunno, move around a bit? I mean, not that the tank is all that huge. Probably won’t be swimming any laps in it, but it can’t be comfortable to be all tied up like that. Just, just come up here a second?”

Martin kept up a soothing stream of natter, with no idea if it could even understand him. But in all the stories, sirens captivated people with their voices, which Peter had implied was true. So even if it didn’t speak English, it had to at least be intelligent, right? And it did seem to be responding, floating gently towards the surface, hesitantly nearer to Martin. It wriggled one long-boned hand through the net and grasped the edge of the tank, pulling itself up against the side and letting its head break the water.

Martin reached out slowly with the wire cutters, and when the siren didn’t pull away, worked it into a knot by its shoulder. It flinched when the cable snapped, but didn’t move, keeping its intense focus fully on Martin. As he worked, he kept talking in low, soothing tones about anything he could think of. Bit by bit, the net started to come loose, revealing more of the creature.

It—he?—was positively scrawny, dark skin stretched over jutting, oddly lopsided ribs. His skin had an unhealthy grey pallor in the harsh fluorescent lights of the hold, and a mosaic of pale scars—some looking like hook marks or bites, a starburst through his shoulder as though from a harpoon, even one angry branching fractal covering one hand and curling up his forearm like a huge jellyfish sting—dotted nearly every visible part of him. His silky dark hair, shot through with strands of white, hung in slick curls across his face and shoulders. Out of the water, the freaky glowing of his eyes faded into black sclera and seaglass irises, but the siren’s gaze never wavered, still feeling like a searchlight shining full into Martin’s face.

Martin wrestled with the net, his feet sometimes leaving the floor as he leaned his full weight into the wire cutters, trying not to overbalance and pitch headfirst into the tank. As he worked, he pulled more and more of the net over the edge of the tank to keep it out of his way, not wanting the siren to get re-entangled in it. He had less than a second of warning when the net finally loosened. The siren’s eyes blew wide, he gave a great twisting heave, and his tail snapped the rest of the nylon and unfurled. A surge of seawater crested over Martin’s head as the siren backed away from his reach.

“Right, now keep your hands off me, human,” the siren snarled, deep voice rich and beautiful despite the hostile tone.

“Oh! You can talk!” Martin spluttered and blinked stinging water out of his eyes.

 _Stupid thing to say,_ he thought, a second after the words left his mouth, but he honestly couldn’t think of anything else.

The creature scowled, puckering a set of small, circular scars trailing down his face. “Of course I can talk.”

“R-right, just, sorry, I—I didn’t know if all the…” Martin gestured vaguely at his own throat, eyes trained on the neat slits of the siren’s gills. “If all _that_ meant that you couldn’t… or if you were…” he trailed off into awkward silence. “I’m Martin,” he tried.

The siren’s expression was calling him an idiot. _Yeah, guess I earned that._

“Mmhm. And tell me, Martin, where would the legends of our voices come from if our gills prevented us from speaking above the water? If we couldn’t breathe air?”

God, his voice was beautiful. No wonder people drove their ships into rocks to follow the sound. Martin blinked and forced himself to close his mouth. “Well, lots of fish can’t breathe air.”

“I am not a _fish_ ,” the siren sniffed.

“Oh…. So, more like a frog, then?”

“No, not like a frog!” The beautiful creature looked so affronted, Martin nearly laughed. He didn’t think that would win him any points, though, so he bit his lip.

“Look, I dunno how this works! Honestly, I mostly thought sirens were a _myth_ until an hour ago!” He pushed his dripping fringe off his forehead and became acutely aware that he was soaking wet and starting to shiver in the Lukas-chill air. He tossed away the ragged remains of the net, shucked his soggy jumper, and slid down the nearest wall to catch his breath.

“Good,” said the siren. “We work rather hard to keep it that way.”

Martin hummed. “I’d assume that would include not letting yourself get caught by humans, though.”

The siren scoffed. “I didn’t _let_ myself get caught. I just… happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“What, close to the surface?” Martin guessed with a chuckle. “Aren’t there, I dunno, rules about that kind of thing? Your king hasn’t forbidden it by royal decree?” He laughed a little, but stopped when the siren shot him a truly stung look.

“Be as flippant as you want, human, but this isn’t one of your stories,” he said. “You're the ones trawling around my home, dragging your… your _nets_ ,” he spat, waving a hand at the ragged orange pile on the ground. “Capturing everything in your path. Not to mention the _pollution_. Do you have any idea how much garbage there is at the bottom of the ocean? Getting caught in a net isn’t exactly comfortable, and if you knew how many times I’d—I’d removed pieces of plastic from some poor creature’s stomach, y—”

“Okay, yes, I’m sorry,” Martin interrupted, chagrined. “That was insensitive of me. I’m—I’m sorry. I’m just… still trying to get used to the idea of you, I guess. As a real thing rather than a myth. I mean…” he trailed off with an incredulous laugh, gesturing.

From his vantage point on the floor, Martin had a good look at the siren as a whole. Beautiful, satiny dark skin, silky-looking hair, a bony face that was growing more human the longer the siren was out of the water. Just beneath his strangely-lopsided ribcage, the creature’s skin transitioned into a deeper blue-green hue, slender waist tapering into an iridescent, muscular tail easily three meters long, coiled up in the bottom of the tank, ending in a massive fin. Smaller, more delicate fins fluttered all the way up his sides and along his arms. Slender, webbed fingers gripped the edge of the tank, and those inquisitive glass-green eyes sparkled as he pulled himself up to study Martin on the floor.

“You mean… what?”

God… part of Martin wished he still wrote poetry. If any living creature was worthy of being put into verse, it was this one. Of course, it deserved better than any words Martin could come up with.

He shook himself out of it. “Nothing,” he said hastily. “I meant nothing.”

 _Idiot._ Less than an hour with the creature’s undivided attention and he was already failing Peter’s stupid test. He pushed himself to his feet.

“I should… get back up there. They’ll be…” Martin couldn’t get out the words _wondering where I am_ because that was obviously a lie. He cleared his throat instead. Then something occurred to him. “Though, I wondered, what’s your name? I mean, it doesn’t feel right to keep calling you ‘the siren’ in my head.”

The siren had never stopped watching Martin, the whole time he was there, and it wasn’t like Martin’s awareness of his gaze had faded or anything. But it had dimmed, turned into candleflame rather than a spotlight. An almost-comforting cozy warmth and weight. Now, it returned full force and knocked Martin breathless, pinned him like an insect to a board.

“Names have power. You should be more careful about who you give yours to… _Martin_.”

An exhilarated shiver worked its way down Martin’s spine. The siren’s eyes flared with bioluminescence again, reminding Martin of a glowstick—absurdly, through the primal fear of being seen and _known_ absolutely. His features grew more piscine, nostrils becoming slits, teeth growing into needles, and Martin found he couldn’t move, couldn't speak, only watch the change in terrified fascination.

Then the siren’s face shrank back to approximately-human, the glow in his eyes shuttering as a thoughtful expression stole over him. His lips twitched like he was trying to translate in his head. Then, after due consideration, he made a short, guttural noise in the back of his throat, half gargle, half hum.

Martin didn’t even try to imitate it, suspecting he lacked the vocal system to even produce the sounds. Instead, he tried to translate the noises into the nearest English approximation. Closed-teeth, back of the throat, then hum through the nose…?

“J-Jon? Is that… good? Jon?”

The siren’s expression transitioned from surprised to thoughtful to pleased to carefully neutral in less than a second. “Yes, I suppose. If that’s the best you can do.”

Martin nodded. “Right, well, pleased to meet you, Jon,” he said, collecting his soggy jumper and draping it over one arm. He took one glance back before he left the room. The siren— _Jon_ was mouthing his own name, fingers pressed to his lips as if the word was making his lips tingle.

An absurd rush of fondness filled Martin.

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Just write your fluffy Mer AU," I said. "It'll be quick and easy," I said. But no, then it decided to grow a little plot.
> 
> Seriously, thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated. :)
> 
> I'm @screaming-introvertedly over on Tumblr. Feel free to come say hi!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is four chapters now... I don't know what happened... this thing is already 6000 words longer than I thought it would be...
> 
> Enjoy!

The next day during his lunch break, against all the screaming of his self-preservation instincts, Martin brought his sandwich and a plate of deli meat down to the hold.

For a seat, he dragged a couple of old plastic crates beside the tank and stacked them. He sat, balancing the plate on one knee and tearing off the damp plastic around his own food. Jon pulled himself up on the lip, resting his chin on his crossed arms like a kid at the edge of a swimming pool.

“Hello,” Martin said.

“Hello, Martin,” Jon replied. Martin suppressed a shiver. Did Jon really have to say his name like that? All dark and rich and nice, like he was rolling the flavour around his mouth, tasting it?

Martin spent the whole night before curled up in his bunk, not sleeping, talking himself down from the encounter, convincing himself it hadn’t been as intense as he was remembering. The siren wasn’t _that_ compelling, that captivating, that oddly beautiful. Couldn’t have been! And there was no way the touch of his eyes made Martin feel like he was the only person in existence, no way.

But it had. And he was, he really was. And it did. It really, _really_ did.

Martin cleared his throat, giving himself a mental shake. “I, ah, I realized yesterday I hadn’t asked what you liked to eat? So I just brought…” He trailed off, waving lamely at the plate in his lap.

He _had_ gone to some effort to make it look nice. Slices of turkey and ham and even a bit of cold roast beef, neatly arranged in a spiral as if Martin was putting it out for a party. He was still worried it would be a weird texture from being frozen and thawed, but there wasn’t much he could do about that.

“I mean, I figured you mostly ate… fish. But we only had tinned tuna and I didn’t think you’d like that. Plus I heard it’s high in mercury? Though… I don’t know if you have to worry about that. Ah, so—” Martin knew he was rambling. He bit his tongue. _Focus, man._

He’d also had to talk himself out of bringing tea, not sure how the siren took it. Or, on second thought, if he could even drink it.

Jon peered over the lip of the tank and extended one skinny arm to snag a slice of roast beef. Martin remained absolutely still, afraid any movement would startle Jon as if he were an aquarium fish. Jon brought it up to his eyes, studying it like the secrets of the world were inscribed on the ragged slice of meat. He sniffed it, nostrils flaring, then tore off an edge with his teeth. He hummed approvingly. Martin started to breathe again.

“This is good,” Jon said, carefully folding the roast beef and stuffing the entire piece into his mouth. Then he reached for more. Martin hid a smile in a bite of his sandwich, studying Jon over the rather lackluster ham-and-cheese.

Jon’s jellyfish-scarred arm was now repeatedly entering Martin’s line of sight. It—along with the rest of the scars dotting Jon’s entire body—made Martin’s long-smothered protective urge rise up. He wanted to wrap him in a blanket, keep him safe and warm and _out_ of the ocean. Which was completely ridiculous, he _knew_ it was ridiculous, and still couldn’t stop himself.

The siren was a wild—animal? It felt wrong to call something so intelligent an animal—Jon was _wild_ , and could obviously take care of himself if he’d escaped so many encounters scarred but largely whole. But still.

Martin could hardly tear his eyes from Jon’s slender wrists and neck and even his goddamn _collarbones_ , and when he did, he found himself watching Jon’s tail, swishing with obviously-constrained strength in the water, giving him the air of being both delicate and immensely dangerous.

“I mean, yes, you were right, fish is normally all that’s available back home, so that’s all I tend to eat,” said Jon, taking a bite of an oily slice of ham. “But the flavour of this isn’t bad at all. Reminds me a bit of human.”

Martin choked. Jon finished his slice and licked his fingers innocently.

“Sorry, _what?”_ Martin coughed into his sleeve, staring at Jon in horror.

“Did you forget what I am?” Jon flashed teeth in not-a-smile, normal human incisors narrowing briefly into needles, the fins on his arms flaring out. “Sometimes I can’t fight the urge any longer. I… _sing_ to people. I compel them to leap into the water so that I can drown them and _eat_ them.” Despite his defensive tone, he looked almost regretful. “I told you, Martin, this isn’t one of your stories.”

“N-no, no, of course I knew _that_ part,” Martin scoff-laughed, waving it off.

Jon went still, staring unblinkingly at Martin, his fins still raised like hackles and stuck straight out from his body. It made him look, for all the world, like a bewildered, deflating puffer fish. Martin tried not to find it desperately endearing.

He continued, determinedly smothering a smile. “I mean, I’m sitting in the hold of a supernatural ship sharing my lunch with a sentient creature with gills and a _tail,_ for God’s sake, that’s a little hard to just detach myself from.” He poked idly at the squashed bread in his hands, watching Jon.

“No, it’s… you’ve just…. Human meat tastes like _ham?_ Gee, thanks, could have gone my whole life without knowing _that._ ” Martin frowned at his sandwich. “Don’t think I can finish this, now!”

A smile that looked startled out of him darted across Jon’s face. Martin caught his breath. The smile lit up Jon’s whole demeanor, cleared like the sun burning away a fog, took him over and made it obvious his beauty ran far deeper than his extraordinary appearance. And if Martin wasn’t mistaken—which was more than possible, what the hell did he know about mer-person body language?—Jon’s posture was a smidge more at ease, his smile growing, shining radiant from his face.

Martin took a moment for the air to return to the room. “So… you only drown one person at a time? I thought…” He refrained from saying _in the stories…_ “I thought sirens caused sailors to shipwreck, forced them to steer into shallows, that kind of thing. Whole ships at once, not just one sailor at a time.”

Jon scoffed, but looked amused. “What, are my methods of killing not efficient enough for you? Yes, there are… _some_ in my domain who prefer to do it that way. The more theatrical, the better.” He shook his head disdainfully. “But, no. To me, there is no use in taking an entire ship when I can sate my hunger with the occasional lone man.”

Martin didn’t think he’d imagined the tiny emphasis on the word _lone_ , and he certainly hadn’t missed the way Jon’s eyes flared briefly green as they fixed on Martin’s. A shiver, a feeling not unlike fear, worked its way down Martin’s spine.

_If he did choose to drown me…. Well, there are worse ways to go than held in those arms, staring into those eyes._

Martin must have made some sort of small noise at his own intrusive thought, because Jon’s smile dropped away, his eyes narrowed in curiosity. Heat rose in Martin’s face, and he knew he was turning an embarrassing blotchy red. He ran a hand over his cheeks, wishing he could suck the noise out of the air.

He was spared the indignity of explaining himself when Peter’s voice crackled over the staticky old PA system Martin knew he hated using, summoning Martin up to the wheelhouse.

Martin crammed the last few bites of his sandwich in his mouth, hopped off his crates and, after a moment’s thought, balanced Jon’s not-yet-empty plate on one of the tank’s corners. He flashed Jon an apologetic look as he scurried up the narrow stairs, and the siren's curious regard raked across the nape of his neck.

He mostly felt relieved at escaping, which he knew was Peter’s influence. But apparently, he still had enough connection to his humanity to feel guilty _for_ feeling relieved, as well.

_

“You’re not worried, then?” Jon asked, the next afternoon.

“Hm? ’Bout what?” Martin asked, glancing up at the siren. Martin was sitting on his crates with his back against the tank, darning one of his jumper sleeves. Jon watched his every move.

This was a horrible idea, he’d tried to tell himself. Now that he knew what Jon liked to eat, he could just deliver a plate of ham down there once a day and be done with it. There wasn’t actually a reason he needed to stay. Except that… besides Peter, Jon was the only one who had even looked in Martin’s direction in, God, months? And being the subject of Jon’s focus, more than anyone else, was _heady_ in a way Martin was not prepared for.

He’d been spending more and more time in the hold, keeping away from Peter and the other nameless crewmembers. And he knew, objectively, that was making the _Tundra_ increasingly more dangerous for him to be aboard. Yet, here he was, back again.

And while, by all rights, he should have been afraid of the ancient, deadly creature he knew Jon was, the more time Martin spent with him, the more Jon’s bared teeth and purposefully-unblinking gazes felt like… posturing. Like Jon knew he was dangerous—saw himself as a monster—and was trying to make Martin see him that way, too. Pushing him away on purpose.

Oh, yes. Martin knew all about that.

“You aren’t worried that I might try to… _bewitch_ you?” Jon continued with a deep breath. Martin could tell his eyes were glowing green again, because it cast light on the cream thread in Martin’s hands, turning it a rather nasty shade. “Sing you into taking control of the boat, compel you to help me escape? That I might drag you below the surface, drown you, eat your flesh and leave your bones to rot on the seafloor?”

Yeah, Martin could see right through _that_. He shrugged, voice deliberately casual, not taking his eyes off his sewing. “I mean, I guess you could try? But I don’t think it would work, not on this vessel. Most of the crew are so far gone already, nothing you sing could tempt them. So, no, I’m not exactly worried.”

Jon sniffed, sounding a tad petulant. “But _you're_ not one of them, are you? The isolated always have a very particular... aura about them. I can feel it _on_ you, but you don't belong to it, not truly. You are not a Lukas. So why are you working for him?"

A twinge of panic that Jon could sense he was different, and confusion at Jon knowing the Lukas name even though Martin was dead certain he’d never mentioned it before, were both muted under a wave of urgent candidness. Almost involuntarily, Martin found himself speaking, his sewing forgotten in his lap.

“Well, after my mum died, there was nothing left for me ashore. Didn’t have any other family or friends in the city, and I knew Peter through an old job. He’d taken a liking to me. Said if I was ever in need of ‘a change of scenery,’ he’d be happy to help. I thought then he just meant a different job. Didn’t find out until later he literally meant sailing around the world.

“Though, to be honest, it was a… a _huge_ relief when mum died, she kinda… left me with nothing. I’d dropped out of secondary school to take care of her, so I didn’t have many options, employment-wise. I was getting pretty desperate. Was nearly out of money, close to losing my flat, when, out of the blue, I remembered Peter. Had a bit of a panic when I thought I’d lost his card, called him up, and…. Here I am. He gave me a once-over, smiled, clapped me on the back, and told me I would take to the work like a natural. And I really have. Or… the work has taken to me, anyway.”

The need to speak drained away, leaving Martin with a pressure at the root of his tongue and the mortifying feeling of being utterly Known. He could almost have dismissed it as simple oversharing, since it had been so long since anyone even pretended to be interested in what he had to say, except… even at his neediest in his childhood, he _never_ would have divulged that much information. Not about… her.

He twisted around on the crate to look at Jon. “Wh—wait a minute… what was—?”

Jon’s guilty look spoke volumes.

“I—sorry, I’m sorry, I—s-sometimes it just slips out, I-I don’t always mean to do it,” Jon rattled off, genuinely distressed.

“Wh—do _what?_ What, exactly, did you do?” Martin straightened his spine, bringing himself closer to Jon’s eye level.

Jon winced, his fingers twitching on the edge of the tank. “It’s a, ah, a manifestation of my… abilities.”

“So, what, you can just _make_ people tell you anything you want to know?”

Jon took a deep breath. “Largely, yes.”

“Alright. Okay. Wow.” Martin slumped, staring blindly into the middle distance. “Can you… _not_ do that, with me? Please?”

“O-of course, I-I’m sorry, Martin. Like I said, I don’t always mean to do it. I will try to keep it quiet around you.”

“’Kay, thanks,” Martin said, dazed. He didn’t know what was more disturbing—the revelation of a horrifyingly invasive ability that apparently Jon couldn’t totally control, or this new, stuttering, awkward Jon promising to respect Martin’s boundaries, where just a minute before, he’d been— _jokingly?_ —insinuating he might try to drown him.

Martin gathered himself, purposefully setting aside his darning and turning to fully face Jon. “Okay, so, second question. You know Peter?”

Jon hummed unhappily. “ _All_ of us know Captain Lukas.” He soaked the title in derision. “He has… quite the reputation below. His ship is untouchable, of course, but _he_ poses more danger to his crew than we ever could. You know, you’d have a much quicker and less painful end if you just threw yourself overboard now.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that tracks,” Martin sighed, looking at his lap.

“But you live in _London_. This can’t have been your only option.” The glow in Jon’s eyes was ramping up again, static building in Martin’s ears. This one felt unconscious, not at all like posturing. “You said you knew Lukas before, you had to know how dangerous he is. And you still accepted the job. _Asked_ for it. You don’t seem the self-destructive type by nature, Martin, and yet, here you are, so what hap—”

“Enough, Jon!” Martin snapped, squeezing his eyes shut against the pressure in his head. “Please, I-I asked you not to do that.”

“Y-yes. Sorry.” The glow faded as Jon passed his scarred hand over his eyes. Martin made his fingers unclench from the jumper in his lap. “Just… you can find stability in-in other places, Martin, you don’t have to risk your life among incredibly dangerous people who _can_ not care about you—”

“Yeah, well, this isn’t a story, Jon, like you keep telling me. No hero is gonna come riding out of the blue and save me, no one is _ever_ going to find me worth caring about, so….”

Both of them took startled breaths in unison. Anger leapt into Martin’s throat, but that statement hadn’t been unnaturally compelled. No, he’d let that one slip out all on his own.

“ _Martin_ …” and Jon had _no_ right saying his name that gently.

“I have to go,” Martin blurted, and charged out without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, all you lovely people! I hope you liked it! :D
> 
> As usual, next chapter should be up by next weekend.
> 
> I'm @screaming-introvertedly on the Tumblr. Come yell at me about TMA!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I'm glad you're here! Enjoy.
> 
> I don’t think it’s too bad, but there is a… moderately-graphic description of a wound in this chapter. If you’d rather not read it, skip the one paragraph that begins “All four fingers.”

When Martin next stumbled down there, days later, it was only out of some ridiculous sense that it might be safe.

Over the previous few days, he’d delivered food to the siren, tersely and without saying anything, and left immediately. Jon never said anything, never tried to stop him, just watched him unhappily out of the corner of his eye. And Martin was… not surprised, exactly, but disappointed with himself to find how much he’d missed talking to Jon. Or just sitting quietly with Jon, being near someone who made him feel a little less…

Well. Less _lonely_.

But really, the worst part of the past few days had been Peter. His normally-bland little smile had taken on an almost… predatory gleam whenever he looked in Martin's direction, and he was going out of his way to ask polite questions:

“So how is our… guest settling in, Martin?” or “You seem a bit down, lad, how are you feeling?” or “I’ve been seeing a lot more of you lately, everything all right?” Not inherently taunting, but pointed enough to make Martin think he knew a lot more than he let on. Martin’s terse one- or two-word answers only made Peter’s smile wider.

But _now_ … The second he’d leaned into the squeaky old door, pushing it open with a groan, Jon’s intense gaze fixed on him. Martin was dully concerned to note how much he’d missed the weight of it.

Jon immediately launched into what sounded like a rehearsed speech.

“Martin, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have compelled you. Please come back, I miss you, you are the _only_ thing that makes the time down here bearable—” He cut himself abruptly off as his focus shifted to Martin’s hand. “Oh _Martin_ , w-what happened? Are you alright?”

Damp and shivering after the exceptionally grueling shift on deck, Martin collapsed, exhausted, onto his crate, throbbing fingers wrapped tightly a towel. “Yeah, m’fine. Just an injury.”

“What… what happened?” Jon enunciated, very carefully _not_ asking in siren voice.

“This? It was nothing much, just… hazards of the deck, you know. Lots of heavy metal objects swinging around, right dangerous if they’re not properly secured.” He sniffled, nose streaming after being out in wind and rain and cold ocean mist. “I don’t even know what it was, part of a crane? Just an accident. It happens.” He tried to shrug it off.

He’d managed to fight off tears as the other crewmembers gathered around, even though all they did was stare numbly at it, as if the injury were of so little consequence, it didn’t even deserve their interest. And Martin had the feeling if it’d been anyone else in his place, they wouldn’t have cried. So he didn’t either. He’d forced himself to his feet, went to the galley, bound an ice pack to his fingers with a towel, and finished his stint on deck.

That was hours ago. Martin gave a full-body shudder, face and fingertips prickling as his blood started to flow to his extremities again. The cargo hold wasn’t warm, by any means, but it was balmy compared to the outside. Absently, he scrubbed his windburned cheeks with his good hand, sighing and letting his body sag forward. He rested his forehead on the edge of Jon’s tank and closed his eyes.

The adrenaline that had kept him going for most of the day was draining away, leaving Martin feeling strung-out, weak and shaky. Or maybe that was just the cold.

“Here, you need… let me just…” Jon mumbled.

Martin groggily raised his head, watching as Jon climbed half out of the tank and tugged loose a folded plastic tarp from piled detritus on the other side of his tank. He balanced on his tail and steadied the pile with one hand while it wobbled and listed, but didn’t topple, until he had extricated the tarp. Keeping it carefully out of the water, he returned to Martin’s side and offered it to him.

Martin stared at it with his mouth open.

Jon sighed and shook it out with a great rustle, draping it over Martin’s shoulders.

“You’re shaking. You need to be kept warm.”

Martin snaked his functional hand out from beneath the tarp to pull it tighter around his shoulders. The plastic was cool, but rapidly warming from body heat Martin didn’t know he still had left in him. His injured hand was beginning to throb quite concerningly as feeling returned to his fingertips.

“Thank you,” he said, through a full-body shiver.

The daft thing was, he really did feel safe down here, safer than anywhere else on the ship. The siren’s regard was like a warm blanket itself, reassuring and watchful. Martin was tired of trying to convince himself it didn’t feel good.

“May I see it?”

Martin glanced up at Jon to find his expression pinched with worry, gaze flicking from Martin’s face to his hand. Too exhausted, body and mind, to assemble an objection or even wonder why, he gingerly unwrapped the towel, waiting until the last moment to pull away the ice, which had mostly melted anyway.

“Yeah, sure, alright. Long ’s you promise you’re not gonna… I dunno, _eat_ it or something,” he tried to laugh.

All four fingers of Martin’s left hand were purple and black, and so swollen they were forced straight. A gash along the backs of the first knuckles made it look like the skin had stretched so much it’d split. It was still oozing blood, deep black-red in the harsh lights. Martin didn’t even want to think about bending them. He exhaled shakily and looked away, holding his hand up so Jon could see.

The siren’s cool fingers delicately encircled his wrist, turning his hand this way and that. He exhaled in surprise. “You’re so _warm_ ,” he breathed, and his other hand braced ever so gently underneath Martin’s throbbing fingers.

A bitten-off cry of pain escaped Martin, and he clenched his teeth around it. Jon’s face scrunched up in apology and his touch immediately gentled. “Yeah, well, warm-blooded, right?” Martin joked, voice tight.

Jon’s breath blew chill over the back of his hand as the siren inspected it, stroking carefully along each finger, being _so_ delicate. Martin leaned his head against the edge of the tank, mind numb, content with just letting him do whatever he wanted.

Until he felt some kind of… cool, wet, rough _thing_ rasping over the gash on the back of his hand. He startled upright and watched for a second, in complete bafflement, as Jon _licked_ him. _Again_.

The tarp slid off his shoulders as Martin launched to his feet and tried to pull his hand out of Jon’s grip, which snapped tight around his wrist and held him effortlessly. “Eeauurggh, what the _hell_ , Jon, stop it!”

“No—no, Martin, l-look, I helped it, I made it better!”

Martin stopped, and looked, and sure enough, the bruising and swelling drained away, his fingers returning to a normal size and shape, and as he watched, the gash knitted closed before his eyes.

Jon relinquished his grip on Martin’s hand, sinking lower into the water and looking sheepish. Martin tentatively bent his fingers. The pain was completely gone. He turned, goggle-eyed, to Jon, and sat down heavily on the crate.

“You were hurt. I wanted to help,” Jon said, in the smallest voice Martin had heard him use.

“Right. Well, y-you _did?”_ Martin said, still flexing his fingers. Right, of course the completely improbable creature had magical healing powers in his _saliva_ , why not? Martin felt something like a muted cousin to hysteria bubbling up in his throat, and it emerged first as a frantic, whispered laugh, then his voice broke and tears finally burned hot down his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he choked, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “I don’t even know why.”

But he did, though.

The past few days—or, God, _months_ , really—had been… a lot. Everything with his mum, and then Peter, his gradual isolation from anyone he might once have called his friends, who didn’t even seem to notice that he’d gone. And then, Jon…

Jon had missed him. Jon wanted to help him. Jon thought he was worth _being_ helped. And that… well. Martin was both too tired to examine the withered feelings that _that_ revelation stirred and too tired to fight them back, so he sat, quiet, until the tears stopped. At some point, Jon took his hand again and just held it, and by all rights, Martin should have been distressed at how right it felt.

Martin studied Jon’s hand in his. Felt the slender strength in the siren's thin bones, brushed the lines on his palm and wished a bit he knew how to read them, ran his fingertips along Jon’s fingers—he didn’t have fingernails or claws or anything, they just _ended_ —and over the cool, smooth webbing between them, tracing the tiny branching veins winding through the translucent skin.

Jon shivered. Martin pulled away guiltily, glancing up.

“N-no, don’t stop,” Jon hummed. “Just… I never realised how sensitive the skin there is.”

The moment had broken, though, and Martin was aware of how horribly awkward this was, how weird he was being. Oh, God, Jon had just _sat_ there while Martin _stroked his hand,_ what the hell was wrong with him? He let sat up straight and pulled himself together, looking sheepishly down at his lap. Funnily enough, Jon did the same.

The siren cleared his throat, somewhat stiffly. “Anyway, ah, what I said before was… _is_ true, Martin. I am sorry for not controlling myself better. And for what I said. It is… dreadfully boring down here and your conversations are…. Well. I miss you.”

Martin ran his hands down his face and laughed ruefully. Of course he did. Why, God, why was this happening to him? “You miss _my_ conversation, well, I’m sorry I’ve set such a low bar for you.”

Jon fixed him with an earnest gaze and did it _have_ to take his breath away _every single time?_ “No, not just your conversation, Martin, don’t…. I’m not---I didn’t say that because I literally don’t have any other option, I—” He cut himself off with a frustrated grunt. “I-I would choose you even if I _had_ other options… No, that sounds even _worse_ …”

Jon straightened up and took a deep breath. “I miss you. Not because you’re all I have, but because you’re _you_.”

And no, nope, Martin could _not_ handle that right now. Not this close and in that voice and with those _eyes_. So Martin did what he’d spent years learning how to do, and deflected. “Well, regardless, how about I see if I can scrounge up some books for you? If there’s anything but, I dunno, technical manuals on this tub.”

He stood and stretched. Christ, his muscles _hurt_. He couldn’t wait for a good long sleep curled up in his bunk. He collected the towel and bag of ice, heading for the door before Jon could say something else more lovely than Martin deserved. “Just, if I do find some, try not to get them wet.”

Jon’s mouth thinned into an unhappy line, but he let Martin get away with it, drily quirking an eyebrow as he pulled his hands, dripping, from the water. “Sure, Martin.”

_

Martin set to his search with a determination he actually found a little frightening. He hoped if he turned something up, it would help him feel less… well, indebted to Jon. He didn’t know if it was because Jon had turned the tables on him—Martin’s _whole purpose_ was to take care of people, and never, ever have it reciprocated, and he _knew_ that, and he’d made his peace with that, and then Jon _had_ to go and muddy the waters—or because the idea of being indebted to a not-actually-mythical creature with magic that Martin didn’t know the rules to _terrified_ him.

But the only books Martin could find after scouring the whole of the _Tundra_ were a ratty old Clive Cussler paperback and a presumably-romance novel with the first few pages missing. He wasn’t about to ask the other crewmembers; even if they could concentrate on him long enough to answer, word would inevitably get back to Peter, who’d want to know why Martin had developed a sudden interest in reading. Developing sudden interests wouldn’t be good for Martin’s reputation, at this stage.

Peter didn’t like books, Martin knew. Though _why_ he knew, or why he bothered remembering anything about his irritating Captain, he couldn’t say. It seemed he’d always done that, ever since he was a child. Remember and record small details about everyone he met, just in case the knowledge ever proved useful. Not even in a malicious way, just… if it made people like him better… but it never had. A habit Peter hadn’t burned out of him yet.

Anyway, Jon had devoured both novels in less than a day, and was not interested in rereading them. At first, he’d gotten a bit sulky at the lack of top-tier literature Martin’s search had turned up, but the closer they sailed to land, the quieter Jon grew.

Besides the lackluster reading options, Martin's search had also turned up a blank notebook with pages not too badly warped by the damp. He’d kept that one for himself, and brought it down to the hold on a whim.

“You must know why they’re keeping me here, right?”

Jon’s weary voice broke the afternoon stillness. Martin looked up from where he’d been dragging his pen in circles in the margins, trying to find words for the siren that didn’t sound trite or clichéd. So far, he hadn’t come up with anything.

“What… what we’re keeping you for?”

“Yes,” Jon enunciated. “Why your esteemed captain has gone to all the trouble of keeping me alive, sparing his food and his cargo space and his assistant for a guard.” He gestured to Martin, which was laughable. Martin had long since ceased to be jailor.

Martin set the notebook aside and sat up, sensing that this was not a conversation to be taken lightly. “What do you mean?”

Jon heaved in a deep and tired breath, swishing his huge tailfin idly around the murky water. Martin had tried his best to keep it clean, hauling old buckets out and bringing fresh in every few days. “Part of the reason we keep ourselves so secret is that we as a species are… very valuable in certain circles. Every child in our waters knows the horror stories. Don’t stray too near the surface, or you can be caught, and if you are _lucky_ , you will be killed, sold to a museum or a collector or to have parts of your body used in false medicines. If you aren’t… you may be forced to sing, your voice turned into a weapon.

“Even if Lukas didn’t already have a buyer in mind—and I’m certain he does—your Royal Navy is always willing to pay a bounty for every siren caught.” He flashed his teeth in something that was not a smile. “We’ve taken quite a few ships of theirs.”

Even still, after everything Martin knew of Peter, his first instinct was denial. “Nah, Peter wouldn’t… he wouldn’t…” _No,_ Martin thought, when he considered it. _Peter definitely would._

Jon cocked his head, a sad smile on his face as if he’d followed Martin’s train of thought. “Why else would he go to the trouble of carting me, alive, back to the mainland? It’d be safer for everyone to kill me now, but I’m more valuable sold alive. Scrapped for parts,” Jon rasped the last part, sarcastic.

“I won’t let that happen.” Martin was surprised at the vehemence in his own voice.

Jon shot him a funny look. “You won’t have a choice.”

“The hell I won’t!” Martin was on his feet and pacing. Jon startled back from the edge of the tank, eyes following Martin’s every movement. “He can’t just _do_ that to you! You’re…” _What, Martin? Incredible? Unique? Maybe the only person that’s ever actually cared about me?_ “Well. You’re _you._ And if… if that’s really what he has planned for you, then I can’t let him go through with it.”

Martin looked at Jon, staring back at him with trust and more than a bit of wry affection, and Martin’s heart ached in a way he didn’t think it could anymore. “I-I can try talking to him, he’ll listen to me. More than he does to any of the others, I think.”

“That’s… M-Martin, that’s not—I would never ask you to do that for me,” Jon began.

“You didn’t. I volunteered.”

“Martin, Peter is… he’s incredibly dangerous. He’s been serving his patron for a very long time, and if he’s made up his mind, I don’t think you’re strong enough to stop him.” Jon screwed up his face in distaste and gestured at the air all around Martin. “I can _see_ his marks all over you, the fog creeping through and wedging itself into you. But you’ve been fighting it. You tried so hard to smother your nature, keep it choked and hidden because you think it hurts less not to care, but it doesn’t, Martin. Talking to him, letting him see that you’re not… you’re not at _lonely_ as he’s tried to make you, he…” Jon looked distressed, leaning forward and reaching out. Martin took his hand, almost automatically. “I-I’m afraid he might try to… to do something to you.”

Martin held Jon’s hand, dragged his fingertips across the webbing like he knew Jon liked. Wanted that hand to become as familiar to Martin as his own. Wanted to have that chance, even if he knew it was impossible.

“The risk is worth it, for me. If it’s for you.” Martin was tired of fighting the impulse, so he ducked his head and kissed the back of Jon’s hand, in perhaps the most chivalrous move he’d ever made in his life. He knew his face was flaming, but in this moment, he didn’t care.

“And if that doesn’t work, I’ll find another way. I’ll—I’ll carry you up to the deck myself and throw you overboard or something, but I am not going to just let you _die_ , Jon.” Martin knew his voice was skewing desperate.

Jon leaned forward, his eyes doing the spooky glowing thing again. Martin didn’t mind. Hardly even noticed anymore. “Then… I will do what I can to help you. It’s…” he sighed. “It’s more than I deserve.”

Jealous, protective heat bloomed through Martin’s chest. He ran his thumb tenderly across the back of Jon’s hand. Stared unflinchingly into the light of his eyes. “No,” he hummed. “It’s not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Does this story really n e e d an injury?  
> Also me: Hhhhhhh thinly-veiled excuse for tender handholding and the inherent intimacy of healing someone's wounds.  
> Me:.... yeah you're right it does.
> 
> Seriously, thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, leave me a kudos, or a comment if you feel up to it! I am always hanging out on Tumblr @screaming-introvertedly, please come and scream with me about the latest episode, or anything you want to talk about, I’m always willing to listen!
> 
> The next (and I pray to god the LAST) chapter should, as usual, be up by sometime next weekend! :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little later than normal, but extra-long chapter this time because I love all of you so much and I didn’t want to extend the chapter number AGAIN and make you wait for the exciting conclusion!
> 
> There is now wonderful ART of Siren Jon!! (I’m apparently an old woman because I couldn’t figure out how to embed links in the words like the cool kids do :( but…) Here! Check them out and give them some love because I legit cried when I saw them.
> 
> By thecrowmaiden: https://thecrowmaiden.tumblr.com/post/621100636731260929/slender-webbed-fingers-gripped-the-edge-of-the
> 
> By possumsquat: https://possumsquat.tumblr.com/post/621290390274867200/i-begged-ao3-for-a-fic-abt-fish-jon-and-by-god
> 
> 8/29 edit!  
> By melancholy-monday-arts:  
> https://melancholy-monday-arts.tumblr.com/post/627742061272219648/siren-jon-concept-based-on

It took Martin several minutes to work up the courage, then smother it in a mask of foggy apathy before he could knock on the door to the captain’s cabin. There was always the chance Peter wouldn’t answer, of course, but he normally would for Martin. And Martin did not want to be taken by surprise. He had quite the performance to put on.

So he knocked. Three timid raps, infusing it with as much indifference as he could manage. “Peter, it’s—it’s Martin. Look, I really need to talk to you.”

There was a pause, just long enough that Martin brought his fist up to knock again, before Peter’s distant voice called out to him. “Hm. Come in.”

Fog rolled out of the door as Martin cracked it, almost cartoonish in its quantity. The cabin was sparsely decorated, monochrome and desaturated just by virtue of having Peter in it. He was stood behind a small desk, swathed in his greatcoat, arms clasped behind his back, looking out the window like he was posing for an oil painting. Ridiculous and unnecessarily dramatic. Martin knew better than to roll his eyes, but he desperately wanted to.

Peter swiveled slowly around to face him, staring somewhere over Martin’s left shoulder. His voice was distant, but lacked the echoey quality it got when he leaned heavily into his patron. Which was lucky; even Martin couldn’t reach him when he got like that. “Yes, Martin? Did you need something?”

Martin waited until Peter waved him lazily in before he took a step further into the office. The chill of Peter’s presence washed over him, sinking deep into his skin, numbing his nose and fingers. “I, er, I wanted to talk to you about the… the siren.”

“What about it?” Peter asked, gesturing Martin to a chair in front of the cluttered desk. Martin sat. Peter remained standing, which put Martin immediately on edge.

“We’re… well, we’re getting closer to London every day, and I was wondering… what—what do you _do_ with a siren once you’re into port?” Martin asked, trying to keep his hands from fidgeting in his lap.

Peter’s mouth smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes, which glittered dangerously. “Oh, I have a buyer, lad. No need to worry about that, I’ll take care of everything.”

“A… a buyer?” Martin asked, heart sinking. On some level, he’d known that Peter must have meant Jon harm, he’d known it since the beginning. But now it was confirmed. So now he had to _do something_.

Peter nodded cheerfully, leaning over the desk and making a note on one of the disorganized papers.

“He’s—” Martin began. Peter looked sharply up. _“I-it’s_ a living thing, Captain. I don’t think it’s right to—”

“Come now, my boy, don’t tell me you’ve started to _care_ for it,” Peter chuckled, laying down his pen and picking up a pipe. “That’s rather the _opposite_ of what we were trying to accomplish here.”

Martin swallowed against a throat gone dry in the frigid air. Peter didn’t seem alarmed, finally meeting Martin’s eyes.

Even when Peter was looking straight at Martin, it was more like he was looking _through_ him, like he didn’t quite see him… or like Martin wasn’t quite there. It was one of the worst things about Peter, and there were _many_ to choose from.

He didn’t seem alarmed, though. Martin buried his wavering devotion behind a wall of fog and blankness. Perhaps Peter couldn’t sense it.

“What did he tell you, hm?” Peter sighed, filling his pipe with tobacco and tamping it down with his thumb. “That he _doesn’t_ mean to try to drag my ship—with all of us on it—to the bottom of the sea? He has a master to feed too, you know. Or… was it more personal? They’re good at that, finding the right bruises to dig into, old wounds to open up. Did he tell you he _cares_ about you?”

Peter clicked his tongue, circling slowly around the desk to the door. Martin swiveled to keep Peter in sight, making the movement look as casual as he could. “Sirens can convince you that _anything_ is true, just by speaking. And you think I hadn’t noticed how much time you’ve been spending with it?” Peter’s cold gray-blue eyes gave Martin a full once-over, running icily along his body. Martin shivered. “It’s got its hooks in you, lad. I can feel them.”

There was a soft, dry click as Peter locked the cabin door. Martin froze, dread sinking into his chest, the cold starting to dig into his bones. Peter sighed in disappointment.

“You were progressing so well before all this. But I suppose it was too much to hope that your allegiance would be strong enough to resist it. These creatures are extremely powerful. And if you don’t quite know what you’re doing, it’s easy to let them get to you.”

His voice brightened. “Not to worry, though. I have something that I think will help you.”

Martin had one second to feel terror, sharp and vicious and arcing through him like lightning, before Peter clapped hands as cold as the deepest ocean onto his shoulders. Numbness radiated from the spots, stealing over Martin’s body like a crawling frost, making his muscles ache deep even as his mind grew quiet. Regret and grief and pain and hope all muted, as distant and unreachable to Martin as the moon.

He sucked in a ragged breath, cold fog filling his lungs and blurring his vision. Peter’s breath was cool against his skin where he murmured into Martin’s ear.

“I know how hard it is to cut yourself off, believe me, I do,” Peter said, oblivious to Martin shaking to pieces beneath his hands. “It really is easier not to care, even if burning away those nerves does… _hurt._ Right at first.” The worst part was, he sounded so _sincere_. Like he hadn’t been born into loneliness, like he hadn’t taken to it like a natural, like he’d ever had to do something like what he was forcing Martin to go through. Martin felt a flare of anger that froze solid in the inexorable grip of Peter’s patron.

Sensation was fleeing him. He trembled with cold, slumping in his seat, everything hazy and muted and distant.

 _“There_ , that should do the trick,” Peter hummed, self-satisfied, giving Martin’s shoulders an extra squeeze. “Don’t you worry, Martin. We’ll be rid of it soon enough. Like I said, I’ll take care of everything. So you don’t have to anymore.”

He removed his hands from Martin’s shoulders, sounding like he had to crack through a layer of hoarfrost on Martin’s clothes and skin to do it. In the absence of even that small, horrible physical contact, Martin felt unmoored, drifting, even more lonesome than before. His head lolled. He hardly had the will to keep it upright.

“You understand what has to be done, don’t you, Martin?”

“Yes,” Martin said. He couldn’t make his voice express any emotion at all.

“Good lad.” And with that, Peter returned to looking out the window, not sparing Martin another glance. Until Martin gathered the will to stand up and escape Peter’s icy presence, which was somehow worse than being entirely and truly alone.

_

Martin didn’t remember walking to his bunkroom. He didn’t remember pulling on his two thickest jumpers, which still weren’t enough to shake off the chill. It took him a few hours of determined thought to work up the will to go down to the hold and see… to see… Jon. And he mostly went because he knew it was expected of him, even if he could no longer remember why.

Jon’s achingly familiar green eyes roved over him, so different from Peter’s and hot as a brand. Jon swam to the edge of the tank closest to the door, his frame taut with anxiety. Watching Martin, his face crumpled from tension into distress.

“My God,” Jon breathed. “What has he done to you?”

“S-s-said it would help,” Martin shivered, dully, unable to meet Jon’s eyes. Jon pressed himself closer, stretching out his arms desperately in Martin’s direction.

“God, I can… I can see it all _through_ you… it’s, it’s… P-please, Martin, come… come over here?”

The foggy loneliness inside Martin recoiled, but he knew… he knew Jon, he-he _liked_ Jon. Or at least, he thought he did… and he hadn’t much will left with which to fight, so he saw no reason not to. Jon stretched out and took his hand.

The siren’s skin felt warm against his. Connection jumped unpleasantly up Martin’s arm like he’d touched a live wire, and he flinched back from Jon at the same time as Jon flinched back from him.

“Jesus, Martin! You’re freezing!” Jon cried, immediately reaching out to him again. Martin didn’t back away, though something in Jon’s voice made him hurt, muted as it was behind that wall of fog.

Jon’s hands cupped his cheeks; his eyes roved over Martin’s face. Martin closed his eyes, because it was easier than watching Jon watch him, and nuzzled closer into one of the siren’s palms, basking in the warm scrutiny easing the chill in his bones. It was a little painful, stinging like a limb that had just woken up, but Martin chased the sensation, because it _was_ sensation.

Jon’s voice hardened. “I am going to _kill_ him for this.”

“’m sorry.” Martin didn’t know why Jon’s voice was so angry, but he’d had a lifetime of being around people who seemed to be constantly angry, and it was always safer to apologise.

Jon laughed humorlessly. “N-no, Martin. Don’t. You… you promised me you wouldn’t let anything happen to me. That’s… you may not believe me, but that is far more than I deserve. So I’ll be _damned_ if I let this happen to you.”

Martin felt his mouth pull down. That… that wasn’t right, that was the wrong way around. _He_ was supposed to be one giving and giving and never getting anything back. That was okay, that was _normal,_ that was the way things were supposed to be. He knew what to _do_ with that. And now, it was okay for him not to care, Peter had given him permission to stop caring, and that—that was such a gift.

“It’s… it’s okay, Jon,” Martin reassured him. His voice sounded lifeless even to his own ears. “I’m not.” Then he had to pause to take a deep breath and gather his thoughts. “I’m not worth it? I don’t… you shouldn’t worry. About me.”

“Far too late for _that_ , I’m afraid,” Jon said, and there was such fondness in his voice, fondness Martin knew he didn’t deserve. “This happened to you because of me. _It_ can’t have you. I won’t let it.”

“It… it already does, Jon,” Martin sighed.

“The hell it does,” Jon snarled. Some distant recognition, hastily smothered, stirred in Martin. He thought he recognized those words, that tone. He… he had said something like that once, hadn’t he? Must’ve been nice, if he’d ever been that passionate about anything…

Martin’s meandering train of thought cut off as Jon reestablished his hold on Martin’s face, looking directly into his eyes.

“I’m…” Jon huffed, his mouth pulled into a little frustrated frown. “I’m going to do something, now. Maybe you’ll forgive me for it later, if you’re able.” Jon laughed humorlessly, almost speaking to himself. “Yeah, that would actually be a very good sign.”

And Jon took a deep breath and began to sing.

Wordless, ethereal, enormously beautiful, his deep, rich voice lifted Martin, wrapped him in warm familiarity. Like a blanket, like a hug, like every bad simile poet-Martin would have discarded for being too cliché. A pressure and rumble almost like static filled his ears. Jon’s luminous green gaze blazed like the sun burning away a fog, clearing Martin’s eyes.

It felt… the song felt undeniably like… _Martin_. Like everything Martin wanted to be, warmth and home and safety and love, somehow like the taste of tea and honey and cold deli meat, like laughter and pen ink and pavement after the rain. And threaded all throughout it, in every stave and stanza, love, love, _love_. And he knew it meant _him_ , and the song was his and for him alone.

Gooseflesh raised, rippling up Martin’s arms and down his back. His breath shuddered out of him in wonder. Sensation flooded back into him in a rush that almost took his knees out from under him. He all but collapsed into Jon’s arms, gripping tightly, pressing his face into the space between Jon’s neck and shoulder. The siren held him up with fierce wiry strength, tucking a hand tenderly up into Martin’s hair.

When he had the strength, Martin pulled back. Not very far back, because Jon was either unable or unwilling to let him go, and Martin wasn’t inclined to disagree with him. They clung to each other, Martin trembling. He was not at all surprised to find his cheeks wet, his vision half-blurred.

 _“Wow,_ ” he breathed. “What was _that?”_

“It’s a… a remembering song, a _knowing_ song, a—a seeing song. Among my people it’s used mostly… well, sometimes in mourning ceremonies.” Martin snorted a bleak laugh, which startled both himself and Jon.

“B-but most of the time,” Jon continued, shooting a look at Martin that was half irritation at being interrupted and half joy for hearing him laugh, “We use it to help lost sirens find their way. It gets… _dark_ in the deep ocean, and if we are traveling together and one of our number gets lost, the rest will gather and sing the song of them, to help guide them. Help them find their way back to us.”

Martin mouthed _the song of them_. “It did… it felt like _me._ ”

“Well, yes, that’s because it’s _your_ song, Martin, it’s—it’s _you_. The knowing song is nothing less than the essence of the one we’re singing about.” Jon blushed, blue-green skin darkening across his cheekbones and spilling down his neck and chest. “I’ve… it’s a… very personal thing, what I just did. I… I sing what I see. So… now you know what you are to me.”

_Beloved._

Fresh tears welled up and dripped down Martin’s face, and the depth of feeling that Peter had taken from him and Jon had given back, that feeling of… of _love_ was tied into a surge of protectiveness so strong it took Martin’s breath away. He knew what he had to do.

Martin took Jon’s face in his hands, catching his jawline fins between his index and middle fingers and delicately caressing them. Jon shivered, his eyelids fluttering, lidding his still-glowing gaze.

“Yes. I do, Jon. So… know that you mean the same to me.” Martin took a deep breath, feeling lighter than he had in months. “I’m getting you out of here. Tonight.”

_

He waited for night to fall fully, when only the least crew would be out and about. And aboard this ship, it was terribly easy to go unnoticed.

His plan was… well, alright, it wasn’t complicated, but it’s not like it needed to be! Just… get Jon out of the tank, carry him up the stairs and across the deck—staying out of the wheelhouse’s line of sight—walk to the edge of the deck, and let Jon fall over the rail.

That’s not to say it _couldn’t_ go wrong… Martin just very much hoped it _wouldn’t_.

Martin pulled a warm knit cap lower over his ears. “You ready to get out of here?”

The siren nodded earnestly, his tail swishing impatiently through the water. _“Please.”_

Jon linked his arms around Martin’s shoulders, and he lifted the siren out of the water. A breath rushed out of him at the surprising weight. Well, yeah, with a tail that long, of course he had to weigh _something,_ but the rest of him was so scrawny, Martin hadn’t expected…. But that was alright. Martin had never been a small man. He could do this.

To keep it from dragging on the ground, Jon settled his tail across Martin’s shoulders, coiling around him like a snake. Martin made his slow way up the stairs, emphasising silence over speed. He had to pause once to catch his breath, leaning against a wall. It took a bit longer than it should’ve because every time Martin looked at Jon, Jon was looking back at him with so much trust in his eyes, it punched Martin’s breath right out of his lungs.

Martin emerged onto the deck. The night was cold and quiet, muffled with a low-lying fog. Martin shivered involuntarily, the cold washing over him, but Jon’s arms tightened marginally around his neck, and he knew it posed him no danger.

Martin stuck to the shadows as much as possible, sneaking between the half-circles of white lights. He chose a secluded spot near the aft of the ship, seating Jon on the railing and taking a half-step back. Jon uncoiled his tail, letting it rest on the deck, but kept his hands on Martin’s shoulders.

They were silent.

“Well,” Martin huffed a laugh, not quite sure what to say. “This is it, then?”

“Y-yes. I suppose it is.”

What more could he say? Jon had saved his life, and now Martin was returning the favor. Paying the debt. They owed nothing more to each other after this. But how could Martin be strong enough to walk away from this?

Martin pulled back until Jon let go of his shoulders. “Good luck, Jon. Be safe.”

“Wait,” Jon called, grasping Martin’s hand. “C-come with me?”

Martin laughed, his fingers tightening around Jon’s despite his better judgement. “And where would we go? We’re miles from any shore, I wouldn’t be able to make it. And then, what, would I keep you in my bathtub?”

“But I-I can’t stand the thought of never seeing you again,” Jon said. “I—I think—I… I need you.”

Martin laughed. “Well, yeah, you could hardly have gotten out of the tank by yourself, could you? You’ll be alright without me. Everyone always is.”

“Martin, don’t say that. I’m not just… I wasn’t just using you to help me escape, I _need_ you.”

“Jon…” Martin breathed out. “You already saved me. I can’t go with you. You know that.”

“Th-they’ll know you helped me. Peter, he’ll know you’re not—what are you going to tell them?”

Martin shrugged. “I’ll figure something out. I’m actually pretty good at lying.”

Jon snorted with frustration, but Martin knew there wasn’t a lot he could say. After casting his eyes about for a while, Jon acquiesced. “Yes, yes alright, fine. If I am to leave you aboard this… _wretched_ ship, you must promise me that you’re not going to stay here. As soon as you get back to shore, you leave this place and find another way, because you are better than this. You _deserve_ better than this. Find a house near the coast, I’ll—I’ll come to you, I’ll find you, and we can be together.”

That sounded… _wonderful_ , and Martin wanted it to happen, God, _did_ he…. “Jon—”

Someone yelled. Martin jumped half out of his skin, looking frantically around. Voices raised and footsteps thudded beneath the deck, doors thrown open, an alarm bell rang. Martin could feel it all beneath his feet. Someone had discovered the siren’s absence. He turned to Jon, panic in his eyes.

“Go, Jon, _go now!”_

Jon leaned forward, matching Martin’s panic. “What about you? You’ll be—they’ll know you helped me—I _can’t_ just…”

Martin knew he only had a few seconds. “I’ll… I, I’ll handle it! Just go, get out of here, now!” He raised his arms as if to push the siren off the edge of the rail.

Jon grabbed Martin’s upper arms, fingers tight on his biceps. “No, _no_ , I’m not going to _leave_ you!”

Martin heard footsteps behind him. A floodlight swiveled from the wheelhouse and shone on them. Blocked from the brightness by Martin, Jon’s eyes widened for an instant, and he leaned in close, whispering in Martin’s ear.

“Play along.”

“Martin?” Peter’s voice called.

Martin whipped around, spreading his arms as if to shield Jon from Peter’s vision.

Though it was the middle of the night, Peter was still fully dressed, including his greatcoat. The only thing missing was the white captain’s hat, and his thick salt-and-pepper hair waved in the night wind.

Peter was typically a jovial man, hardly ever letting anything visibly get to him. Now, Martin thought he looked anxious, his arms out at his sides, palms facing Martin as though to calm a startled animal, rather than held behind his back in his typical deliberately-casual pose. A few other deckhands stood behind Peter, watching over his shoulders.

Fog gathered. Peter’s eyes turned from Martin to Jon and back again.

“Martin… think about what you’re doing. It is _lying_ to you.”

He took a step closer. The fog swelled and built, obscuring the deckhands from view. Martin froze. Any conceivable excuses he could have given fled from him.

A dark, watery laugh sounded from behind him. One of Jon’s arms wended its way across his shoulder, the other wrapped around his ribs. Jon’s hand caressed Martin’s throat, and he rested his chin on Martin’s shoulder.

“I’m afraid Martin isn’t really in a position to _think_ at the moment, Lukas,” Jon hissed, voice gone low and dark. “He’s spent far too much time with _me_ for that.”

Some part of Martin’s hindbrain shivered in primal fear, suddenly very, _very_ aware of the predator sitting right behind him.

 _He won’t hurt me,_ Martin struggled to convince himself. _He’s giving me an out. He’s protecting me._ Better that Peter think he was manipulated into this. He loved Jon for trying. He let his eyes go blank, his head lolling back onto Jon’s shoulder.

“Martin?” If he didn’t know better, he would have said Peter sounded genuinely worried. Jon’s tail wound slowly around Martin’s legs, coiling front and back. “You’ve… the lessons I taught you. The gift I gave you. You can still do this, _fight_ him—”

 _No._ Martin thought. _You are the liar. And I’m never listening to you again._

“You’re too late,” Jon sang, with a low laugh. “He’s _mine_.”

“Martin!” Peter called in warning.

The fog surged towards them. Jon’s tail tensed, his arms clamped tighter around Martin’s shoulders, and with a great coiled spring, Jon launched himself—with Martin in his arms—backwards off the edge of the ship.

Martin sucked in one last breath of cold air. The frigid water hit like a slap, and as they sank below the waves, Martin saw Peter staring over the railing, face crumpled in disappointment, until fog and water distorted his vision.

Pressure grew in his head and lungs, the icy ocean buffeting him from all sides, but Jon’s body pressed along his was a solid, steady presence, warm now in comparison to the water. Jon propelled them through the water, his tail beating against the current, getting further and further away from the _Tundra_.

Martin’s stomach started to spasm, his body aching for a breath. Though it was hard to tell in the dim water, Martin thought his vision was going dark at the edges, succumbing to the pressure and lack of oxygen. He tried to signal to Jon, to gesture to the surface, indicate that he needed _air_ , but Jon didn’t seem to understand. His eyes glowed, casting rippling green light over them both, his gills flaring, his face inches from Martin’s.

And then Jon kissed him.

Martin’s breath whooshed out of him in shock, bubbles streaming from his nose, costing him precious seconds of consciousness. Jon’s lips were warm and silky soft; his hands came up to clasp Martin’s face and hold him still.

 _How… fairy tale_ , he thought.

And _I wish we’d had more time_.

And _God… I’m going to die_.

If these were to be his last moments, Martin supposed there were worse fates.

The pressure in his chest and head eased, his body lacking the fuel it needed to keep him fighting. The growing blackness in his eyes opened up and sucked Martin under.

The very last sensation he knew was Jon’s lips on his.

_

Awareness returned slowly to him. His eyes felt stuck shut, rimed with salt, so he didn’t even try to open them, letting his other senses stretch out. Cradled in cool, rough sand, the salt and gently-rotting seaweed smell of a shoreline, the rush and hiss of waves and the distant cry of seabirds.

Experimentally, he cleared his throat. He was a little thirsty, but there was no burning, after-drowned pain in his throat or lungs. The slight movement, however, sent a lance through his temples and down the back of his neck.

“God, my _head,_ ” Martin groaned, rolling over onto his side. He curled up into the fetal position, sand scraping the side of his face.

“Oh! Martin!” Too loud, far too loud, and Martin winced, clamping his hands over his temples. The echoes sloshed around his head, worse than the worst hangover Martin had ever had.

The voice immediately quieted, apology in every syllable. “Oh, God, yes, sorry, th-that should go away in a minute or two.”

 _Jon. Jon was still with him._ Martin swallowed, peeling one hand away from his head and seeking out the source of the voice. Familiar cool, webbed fingers grasped it and held it tight.

Martin licked his lips and swallowed carefully before trying to speak again. He tasted saltwater. “You didn’t leave me.”

“Never, Martin. N-never.” Jon sounded irritated he would even imply it. Martin smiled, testing out his facial muscles. The pain in his head was easing back, going out like the tide.

He cracked open an eye. It was overcast, for which he was grateful, but the light was still bright. The gray ocean hissed in sedate waves, further down the beach. The sand he was laying on was dry.

Martin opened both eyes, blinked a few times, then shifted and sat up, ever so slowly. Jon put a steady hand on his back, helping him up. Martin’s headache flared once more, then bled away entirely.

Jon was laid out in the sand beside Martin, his long tail curving around them both. His eyes were full of worry. And love. Martin had to fight the instinct to recoil from it, reminding himself he didn’t have to anymore.

“Right. Okay. Where are we?”

Jon looked around, surveying the desolate stretch of sand and scrub. “South coast of England, somewhere near the Isle of Wight, I think.”

Martin searched his most recent memories. “Hang on… I-I _drowned_ , didn’t I?”

Jon sniffed, looking equal parts worried and self-satisfied. “Nearly.”

“I remember…” Martin took a deep breath, touching his own lips. “You… you _kissed_ me!”

Jon shuffled, drawing a random pattern in the sand. He looked sheepish. “Ah, yes. Yes I did. Bit of siren magic. I… bonded us, sort of? Not—!” He tripped over himself to explain when he saw Martin’s shellshocked expression. “Not _permanently_ or anything, not… not unless you wanted it to be. But giving you a bit of my magic was the only way to ensure you’d survive the trip to land.”

“Woah,” Martin breathed.

“You… you did nearly _drown_ , Martin,” Jon said defensively. “I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

“Thanks,” Martin said, sincerely, if a bit lamely. He still wasn’t sure how to respond to such blatant affection, after so long trapped with Peter. So, with a deep breath, he wrapped his arms around the siren and pulled Jon into his side. The siren buried his face into Martin’s shoulder.

“I—I meant what I said, Martin. I need you.” The siren huffed, frustrated. “No, that’s not… I don’t wish to make light of it. I love you.”

Martin pulled back to look at the siren. He was staring at Martin almost challengingly, as if daring him to say otherwise. Martin huffed a quiet laugh.

“I know, Jon. You showed me. The seeing song was _filled_ with it. I love you, too.”

And Martin closed the few inches between them. Jon was definitely not expecting to be kissed. The siren went completely still, eyes widening in shock, then sliding closed as he leaned into it.

Martin only broke the kiss because, despite everything, he did still need to breathe. The deep blue-green blush was high in Jon’s cheeks, pupils blown so wide only a small ring of green showed.

“So… bonded, huh?” Martin asked, pressing his forehead to Jon’s.

The blush deepened. “Only if you want to be.”

Martin’s smile widened. “I do. I really do. Guess this means I have to find a place on the coast, now, huh? Unless you really do want to live in my bathtub.”

“Well, you could always come and live with me,” Jon stretched and sighed, laying back in the sand.

Martin looked at Jon in shock. Jon looked innocently back.

It took Martin a moment to find his voice. _“What?_ You—we’d—you’d… I could… with you?”

Jon let Martin stutter to a stop before explaining. “Well, proper bonding ceremonies are long and complicated, and several of the steps involve things I doubt you can find on land. So, yes. You could. If you chose it.”

Martin flopped down in the sand beside Jon, as breathless as if he’d been running. Leave… _everything_ he knew, every bit of his old life behind, to go to a place where _culture shock_ probably didn’t even scratch the surface of what he’d be going through.

Jon swallowed nervously, turning to face Martin and taking his hand, his voice quiet but earnest. “It’s not… it’s not an easy life, Martin, I won’t lie. It is an… entirely different world, and there are extremely dangerous things, dangerous _people_ down there.” His eyes grew dark and he gestured to the myriad scars dotting his entire body. “Not everything is as friendly as I am.” And there was a bit of a self-effacing smile on Jon’s lips.

“But you said yourself you don’t have a lot left for you in London, so. Just a thought. Of course, I would be perfectly happy if you stayed up here, as well, wherever you wanted, and I’d visit you as often as I could. Whatever you chose, I would be with you on it.”

Martin couldn’t remember the last time he’d had unconditional love and support from _anyone_. He didn’t fear the decision he’d have to make, because he knew—without doubt—that Jon meant what he said.

Martin turned Jon’s hand up and kissed the center of his palm. Feeling unburdened, light as air, freed from obligation, from expectation, he met Jon’s eyes. Whatever Jon saw in his expression made him smile, his entire face alight with hope.

He breathed deep the clean air and gave a sharp nod. “I want to. Let’s do it.”

“You’re… you’re sure?”

Martin nodded.

“Right,” Jon sounded breathlessly pleased. “I’ll offer you my protection, then, such as it is. I promise, you’ll be okay.”

“I know that,” Martin grinned, bumping his shoulder with Jon’s. “I’ll be with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAD to put Jon snapping Martin out of the Lonely in there, because it’s been… 8 months, now, since 159 aired? And that scene still owns my soul.
> 
> And there it is! Whew, this was… so much longer than I had anticipated. I wrote this mostly because it was the kind of thing I wanted to read, and I can’t believe how many of you wanted to read it, too! I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it! :)
> 
> So I’ve read a lot of fic that was like “oh, I love all of you guys,” and I’d be like “pffff, yeah right, you don’t even know me!” But now I understand. I do not know any of you personally, but I love you, and I hope you are well. Yes, you. Thank you for reading my work, and those of you who left kudos and kind comments! I read every single one, even if I take a bit to respond! Your encouragement legitimately is what keeps this writer going.
> 
> This probably isn’t going to be the last fic for this fandom I write, (maybe I’ll even make this a series…?) but my inspiration is fickle at the best of times, and I’ve exhausted my store after writing like a madwoman for the past few weeks. If anybody wants to write a sequel or something based on this work, PLEASE do it, but you are legally obligated to let me know so I can come and be your biggest fan in the comments!!
> 
> As always, I’m on Tumblr @screaming-introvertedly, and I hope to see you over there!


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